City Paper is not for tourists
Being an original drama in one act.
SETTING: The press tent of a large outdoor pop music festival in the suburbs. Not far from here. Not long from now.
CAST IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:
RICHARDS, a music critic for a newspaper, about thirty
A WOMAN, perhaps thirty-five
A BALD MAN, maybe forty
MALITZ, Richards’s malnourished colleague, also about thirty
KLIMEK, a writer, somewhat older than thirty
LIGHTS UP on a tent on a dusty field wherein a makeshift office has been erected. A dozen laptop computers, many of them covered in logo stickers, sit unattended on folding tables, power cords dangling precariously. The tables are also littered with piles of small zip-up nylon portfolios and maps and pamphlets. There is no more free water ANYwhere in this tent, if you can believe that shit. A MAN seated at one of the tables rubs sunscreen on his head. Music wafts in from a beyond a hill, loud but indistinct.
MALITZ uses a PROTRACTOR to adjust the bill of his SILVER JEWS BASEBALL CAP to precisely the right skewed angle while RICHARDS stands animated in conversation with A WOMAN, gesturing frequently towards his white FEIYUE SNEAKERS.
RICHARDS: …so I bought like nine pairs! I’ll totally get you some next time I’m in New York.
RICHARDS (To MALITZ): Don’t talk to him, Dude — he’s the enemy! The enemy!
MALITZ: The enemy is everywhere!
KLIMEK: What is that, a Blue Öyster Cult song or something?
MALITZ: Titus Andronicus. Heard of ’em?
KLIMEK: I KNOW IT’S A FUCKING TITUS ANDRONICUS SONG, YOU GOOF!
END OF PLAY.